


hit the road jack, and don't you come back no more

by mackdizzy



Series: Sleepy Boys [1]
Category: Here we go again--THIS IS NOT RPF., Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Backstory, Canon Backstory, Child Neglect, Childhood, Fiction, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not RPF, enjoy the ride!, not really abuse but....neglect., thats about all I got
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29092500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackdizzy/pseuds/mackdizzy
Summary: Philza Minecraft juggles being a legend and raising two children.Philza Minecraft is a bad juggler.[Sleepy Boys Inc. Backstory fic! Fictionalized / NOT RPF.]
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, sleepy boys inc time hee hee
Series: Sleepy Boys [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134461
Comments: 6
Kudos: 90





	hit the road jack, and don't you come back no more

**Author's Note:**

> i owe this to you guys.
> 
> the love and support i received on exile, vilify truly astounds me. It shocks me to the moon and back. And I thought you deserved something a little more than a crappy fic I wrote at 4 AM. So here it is. I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this, and I think I'm more proud of it than anything I have ever written, ever. I really hope you all enjoy!
> 
> [FICTIONALIZED / NOT RPF.]
> 
> [oh, btw, thanks to my friends' whose headcanons I borrowed from a bit! alex, kt, and the rest of you; you know who you are.]

They call him Philza Minecraft, because he owns everything he touches.

Philza Minecraft is not his real name, of course. His real name is Alistair Phillip Somnolentus, but that’s a fucking mouthful, so he goes by Phil, because going by Ali would make him sound like a sissy. The addendum came with time, but _oh_ is Philza Minecraft a name that is known; he travels across his dominion, slaying dragons and saving children and helping the poor. He is folklore, legend, myth. Philza Minecraft is a hero; Philza Minecraft is a savior; Philza Minecraft is a God.

And one day, Philza Minecraft meets a girl.

Naturally, he finds her in a place where there are no other people. It’s out in the scorching desert heat, and he finds her carrying a block of ice; she shares with him, and he calls her his little refrigerator, and she looks at him like it’s the weirdest thing she’s ever heard, and Gods don’t fall in love, not ever, but sometimes Gods get emotional, and everyone knows emotions have consequences. 

Two of them, wrapped in identical baby blue blankets.

They’re identical, practically, impossible to tell apart if you’re not squinting. Very little Philza shines through; Mom’s brown hair, Mom’s brown eyes, and on the one that comes first, Mom’s hybrid features; notched, rounded ears and an upturned nose and bottom teeth fated to come in all wrong. No harpy in either of them; the other one, smaller but not by enough to stick around for long, doesn’t have much of anything but bona fide human charm and a pair of the biggest dimples you’ve ever seen.

Before they can even get around to naming them, the girl cold as ice is already packing a bag. “I told you we’re not keeping them.” She says, entirely deadpan. “If you intend to, I’m leaving.”

This is why Gods do not fall in love.

-

And so Philza Minecraft juggles being a legend and raising two children. The elder (by only five minutes), he names Axton, the younger, Wilbur. Despite being nearly physically identical, he could not have spawned two more different children. A lover and a fighter; an empath and an introvert; a musician and a warrior. It is evident who the favorite child is; Axton play-fights with daddy in the backyard while Wilbur stays in his room writing music. Axton takes home medals from tournaments, Wilbur brings home little girls to play with and romance. Axton demands the finest clothing, his underbite turned upwards in a nearly perpetual pout, Wilbur likes—genuinely _likes—_ thrifting and hand-me-downs.

And one day, when Axton is loading up for yet another tournament, sharpening his sword on the anvil by the door before they hit the road, Wilbur decides he has had enough.

“I’m leaving.” He announces at the foot of the stairs, to nobody and everybody at the same time. He has a bag of spare clothing and baked potatoes and the stone sword Axton branded before he got a shiny new iron one. “There’s an SMP over the mountains for artists like me. That’s where I belong. Where I can sing and play all day and nobody will tell me I’m not good enough.” He puts on a proper pout; he’s never been as good at pouting as Axton. Philza lets his eleven year old go anyway. There’s nothing more he can do at this point.

For a month or two, the house is draped in solemness; it is quieter without the constant lilt of Wilbur’s guitar. Axton misses the way they used to dance around the dinner table, though he will never admit it out loud. And Philza waits and waits for his son to write from SootSMP and worries and worries that he’s not done enough. And then, Philza lets his other eleven year old go too. He leaves.

(He does not go to the SootSMP. He does not _go_ anywhere at all. When you’re running away, nowhere is ever the right place).

Philza knows Axton can fend for himself; he’s always been so goddamn independent. If he can defeat a kid twice his age with one fell swoop, he can surely hunt for food. He is not human like his brother; he loses touch sometimes, forgets to cook meat before he eats it. But he manages okay. And he gets to thinking. The more he thinks, the more he resents.

He resents his brother for leaving him alone, for devoiding him of his songs and his laughter and his dimpled smile. He resents his father for driving Wilbur off, by making him feel he wasn’t good enough. He wonders if part of it is his fault, too, if he could've done more. He’d do more if he just had another _chance_.

And then Philza Minecraft brings home another baby. 

“I adopted him,” Philza lies. All of his features lacking from his twins are present in the little one; straw blonde hair, bright blue eyes, pointed fingers, and on his shoulder blades, little ridges that will one day grow into wings. Axton, now twelve, sets his face when Philza walks through the door. He stares.

Philza stares back.

He scowls. 

Philza continues to stare.

Axton holds out his hands in a beckoning motion; _gimme gimme._ Philza sets his face too, but he hands over the tiny bundle anyway.

It’s the smallest creature Axton has ever held. He’s breathing; he’s pulsing; he’s _alive_.

And Axton falls in love instantly.

-

Philza could not bear to leave a newborn child behind, but he is still bitter; he does not know how to properly be a parent. So he rests his laurels on the fact that he did a good deed--he saved a child that was alive and breathing and _his_ \--and he runs away again, runs to slay a dragon and save a village and distribute to people in need. He leaves Axton--now twelve--alone home with a baby not two weeks old, and prays he’ll see it grow.

A baby keeps you busy, but there is not much to do in the way of entertainment. So Axton sneaks up into his father’s room (is it sneaking if there is no father at home?) and throws open the chest, rifling around until he finds something that will keep him entertained; a purple vinyl for the jukebox, simply labeled ‘Mellohi’. Sure.

Axton listens to the song for goddamn _hours._ It becomes his daily soundtrack as he learns how to feed a baby, how to change a baby, how to let a baby walk and play and be alive. The days turn into weeks turn into months, and Axton lets the music and the baby guide his life. On the day he celebrates his 13th birthday, the little one--who still doesn’t have a name, a name more than ‘his baby brother’--starts growing proper fangs, like Philza’s. Philza is _Philza_ in Axton’s head, now, not _father_ . Never _father._

It’s another few months or so until Axton gets bored of the routine. One can only watch a baby toddle around and listen to the same goddamn song for so long. So Axton does something risky; he broke--snuck?--went. He goes into Wilbur’s old room, and takes a seat at the dinosaur of a forum board he’d been given, and sets out to talk to someone who could talk _back_ for the first time in over a year.

**6/8/2006**

**> mellohiblade**

hi

**> tominnit**

Hello! Lover of Techno?

**> mellohiblade**

huh

**> tominnit**

Your name haha

Techno?? Yknow like the music?? If you listen to Mellohi

**> mellohiblade**

huh. 

yeah its the only disk my dad had around ive been listening to this song for like a fucking year ok.

**> tominnit**

lmao. What about the blade?

**> mellohiblade**

oh that’s what they called me when i was a kid haha

guess i can fight and stuff

  
  


Axton tries out this new word--Techno. He likes the way it sounds. He wonders if there’s more disks out there like Mellohi, rhythmic and pulsing and alive. He could give Wilbur a run for his money, he thinks. 

**11/14/2006**

**> tominnit**

Wish I could come visit.

**> technoblade**

yeah well your stupid smp’s got everything on lockdown so

**> tominnit **

Fuck the government.

**> technoblade**

fuck the government lmao

> **tominnit**

Listen, I have some extra tulips over here, I want you to have them.

**> technoblade**

what

**> technoblade**

i mean ok

**> tominnit **

Cool, lmk when they’re there

**> tominnit **

Do you like my new status?

**> technoblade**

hope they don’t lock u up for treason lmao

**> tominnit**

#fuckthegovt

**> technoblade**

#anarchyforever

  
  


**11/26/2006**

**> technoblade**

they’re here

  
  


**11/31/2006**

**> technoblade **

tom? 

  
  


**12/15/2006**

**> technoblade**

tom

  
  


**1/16/2007**

**> technoblade**

this isnt funny

  
  


**2/31/2007**

**> technoblade**

ok

Axton takes the tulips out of the chest. He needs something useful to do with them, so he turns them into dye. He doesn’t know what he should dye with them, though. His armour? No, he hardly wears that out to fight anymore. His bedsheets? But who would even see that? The welcome carpet? He hasn’t had a visitor in years.

“Techno.”

" _Tom?_ ” Axton almost jumps a foot into the air, turning around.

But it’s not Tom that’s spoken. It’s a one-year-old, hands curled around the outside of a crib made out of fence posts, pointing a finger at him. “Techno!”

“What?” Axton laughs, leaning over the railing. “Am I Techno now? ‘S that my name?”

The baby doesn’t answer, because he is a baby, and one word is enough for today.

“Cool.” Techno sighs. “Guess it’s time you need one too, huh?” He squints, adjusts his glasses on his nose, blows some of the hair out of his face in a huff. He should do something with all this hair, he thinks. Something flashy. Something permanent. Something worthwhile.

“Heya, Tommy.”

-

Three years later, someone knocks on Technoblade’s front door. He grabs the diamond sword off his belt and practically snarls; he doesn’t take well to visitors, not after last time, and it took long enough for Tommy to go to goddamn _sleep._ So he’s well equipped for combat-- _The Blade_ in the flesh--when he swings open the door.

He’s not prepared for what he finds.

“...Hey.” His twin brother mumbles sheepishly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m back.”

-

“So what happened?” Techno eventually asks, hesitant. “They kick you out or something?”

“Nah. Just bored.” Wilbur sits on the rickety bottom step, and Techno visibly hesitates. “What, Axton? Got something’ up there you’re hiding’ from me? More hair dye, maybe?”

“It’s Techno now.” The elder twin answers, face setting. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

-

“Oh my _God.”_

“Yeah. I know.”

“He’s--dad’s?”

“You’ve got a brother, Wilbur. Congrats.”

“How old?”

“Three.”

“Where’s dad?”

“I dunno.”

An awkward, tense silence settles over them. A jukebox downstairs winds to the end of its track, and starts back over. “Dude.” Wilbur whispers. “Is that Mellohi?”

Techno laughs, his oddly grown-in canines biting down on his upper lip hard enough to stop the tears. “It’s good to have you back.”

-

“Let me play you a song.” Wilbur says that night. “It’s my favorite.” He sits on his chair, the one by the forum that Techno used so long ago, and strums a melody on his guitar. “It’s called cat.” He says with a little smile. “Do you like it? I never got around to burning this one.” He sits back, puts his feet up, exhales softly. “Maybe I will, now.”

“Who’s that?”

“That’s Wilbur. Big brother Wilbur.” 

Tommy doesn’t like big brother Wilbur much, and Techno even now can’t help but think _serves him fucking right._ Over time, this gets better; Tommy the toddler turns into Tommy the child, and Tommy the child loves to hear Wilbur’s songs, especially cat on the jukebox. The life returns to Axton’s twin’s eyes, and Wilbur realizes how happy he is here, with his music and his family, on their playing level. But Axton will always be Tommy’s favorite sibling; more than once, Wilbur will have to drag him in by the shoulder and slap his twin upside the head.

“What? I was just showin’ him how to fight off zombies!”

“Techno, he’s eight!”

By the time of eight year old Zombie lessons, Wilbur and Techno are well into adulthood. They’re still the splitting image of each other, but it’s hard to tell with Techno’s elaborate pink hairdos and his overtly pronounced underbite. Techno lets his twin go to sing and to charm and to romance and play, this time with the certainty that by the end of the week, he’ll be back. Tommy is ten when Techno presents him with a stone sword, bowing down and christening him like a knight. He’s just come home from a tournament, and Wilbur mumbles something about washing the blood out of Tommy’s clothes, and the sound of laughter fills the tiny household. The sound of a family.

-

“Wilbur, mail’s here!”

Tommy is 16, now. Wilbur and Techno are still at home; they’ve vowed to stay, both of them, at least until Tommy wants to move out. Tommy’s getting his adventuring legs already, loving trips down to the post office; invitations for Techno to go fight and Wilbur to go sing, and playdate invitations for Tommy from his friend Tubbo.

“Yeah? Let’s see--hey, what’s this?”

A silence settles over the table.

“Techno?” Tommy calls, and only that much distress in his baby brother’s voice could cause Techno to stop fussing with his weapons and haul ass so quickly.

“What’s up?”

“Whitelist cards.” Wilbur whispers, holding three of them up. “For the Dream SMP.” He clears his throat, suddenly thick with emotion. “Love, Philza Minecraft.”

-

“You ready, kiddo?” Techno says, shouldering his sword, standing rigid in front of the portal.

“Do you think dad’s gonna like me?”

Wilbur snorts, and Techno gives him a proper kick. “Yeah, Tommy, he’ll love ya.’” 

Techno can’t be sure of that himself. It’s very easy for him to resent his father. It’s harder for him to resent Wilbur; but not as hard as he would like.

“This isn’t gonna...change anything between us, right?” Tommy says, his dad’s blue eyes meeting Techno’s.

“You kidding me?” Wilbur laughs. “Course not, Tommy. It’s never meant to be.”

Tommyinnit shoulders his bag--Mellohi and Cat peeking their vinyl heads out, as if ready to watch the show--and steps through the portal with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> this is once again the part where I fish for comments. I'm serious, though; I could seriously use some feedback on this! Let me know if you enjoyed, and if you want to see anything in the future! Thanks, guys!


End file.
